A Long Awaited Piece of Ghana

In March of 2003, I volunteered as a junior high school teacher with Cross-Cultural Solutions in the village of Woe, Ghana, a small country in West Africa. It was an amazing experience, one that made me laugh, pushed me to discover the volunteer in me that I had yet to scratch the surface of, and cry as I unpeeled layers of emotions when faced with corporal punishment and other issues that till then I had never dealt with. I had impressive students and made friends with amazing people from Woe, not to mention a handful of wonderful women from England, Canada, Norway, and around the States.



Leaving was hard, much more difficult than I imagined. I promised my Ghanaian friends that I would return. They called me sister, an honor I had only dreamt of.

Upon returning back to the States, I dreamt of finding Ghana here, in a secret pocket tucked away. Of hearing familiar accents and smelling aromas that I was only familiar with back in a land where fragrances drifted with the salt of the ocean . I yearned of finding a restaurant that served ground nut soup, spinach stew, and fried plantains.

I made it back to Ghana just a year after leaving her, the reunion with friends, laughter, and Woe, powerful.





But over the years, with all of the traveling and adventures that had taken me to the Alaskan bush and China, I forgot that dream and made due with my own ground nut soup recipe, making it for people that I loved, each time being reminded once again of friends that lived on the other side of the world.

For the past few months, my friend Lydia has been telling me about a man from Ghana that worked in her building. I don't know how they one day got to talking, but Oppong and I talked through her, telling each other of regions from or visited, languages spoken, and food missed. He recommended Grace African Restaurant awhile ago and Lyd and I had been planning on checking it out ever since.

The day finally came, complete with memories and words once spoken in Ewe, the local dialect in the Volta Region and where I once lived, coming back a small piece at a time, as if they were only hiding all along.

I picked up Lydia Friday night at work, where Oppong soon ventured out. Leaving my car, hazards flashing, I crossed the city street and shook hands with a man that I had heard about, but wanted to know more of. We talked, I tried not to rush, as ideas tumbled around in my head, clashing with memories.

As we made our way to the restaurant, I could barely contain the smile on my face.

Lyd and I walked into Grace's and were promptly welcomed by people at the nearest table. The place was small, African music in the background, shabby chic Ghana style holding us in its grasp. We sat down and peered at the small, one-sided menu, my head racking itself trying to remember what I liked, more importantly, what I didn't. My stomach gurgled for plantains and okra, but was then informed that many of the items were out, and so our options dwindled. I knew for sure that I didn't like kenkey, so decided to go with banku and fish, Lyd going with a beans and rice with fish dish. (Both kenkey and banku are fermented doughs similar in consistency with solidified Cream of Wheat, but the taste is rather different. Think 'fermented'. At this point at the restaurant, I was under the impression and lack of memory that one was fermented and one was not.)

The food came quickly, and digging my fingers into the banku, I dipped it into the red sauce, and stuck it in my mouth. Fingers sticky, the tastes were spicy of the kind I knew from way back when. Then I tasted the fermentation. Bummer. So, remembering that I didn't like either banku or kenkey, I went at my food, the skin and bones of the fish, reminding me of the first time with the Ghana Girls that I had ordered fish and it came to me head, eyes, skin, and bones, all of it taunting me to the point that I had to cover up the head with my napkin just to attempt to eat it. (And now after living in China, nothing surprises me!) Lyd questioned how to go at the fish. It made me realize how much culture and differences in lifestyles I have become so used to and soaked in over the years that I forget that some people are wondering how to spit out the bones while eating fish. And for some reason, maybe the continued naivete that shows itself in my thoughts and actions from time to time, is still surprised by that.

As my nose started dripping from the spices and I shared some of Lyd's food, I couldn't help but listen to the men at the other table and their talk of Ghana, recent trips, and China's influence in their country. At points, friendly banter becoming heated, the men got louder, which made me want to join in even more. I felt so at home here, so connected and wanted to announce it to them, to join in, but I was held back by what I look like portraying me as an outsider.

With bellies full and sinuses cleared, Lyd and I payed, preparing to leave. Walking around the table, heading to the door, the men asked how we liked the food. I said that it was just like in Ghana and that was my in. With that, talk erupted of where I had been and when, and of visits back home that a few had just taken. I gave my Ewe name with pride and then was asked a question in Ewe, only to be shocked at myself when I was able to give the correct response. We laughed and talked, I was poured some liquor, and cultures colliding while suddenly thinking "Gambie!", Chinese for chug, I took the drink back in one single swig, prompting laughs and hurrahs from everyone.

I was told I had to come back every week, but when I shared that I lived out in Woodstock, I was given an exception, then demanded upon to come every other week.

It was an amazing evening, a treasure that I had always been hoping to find. I loved talking with the men, feeling like I was once again in Ghana surrounded by my friends, feeling connected to a culture that I was hit by years ago as soon as that plane door opened and had loved with the first breath. The best part was that I got to share it, the food, talking with the men, with Lydia, someone that has seen me transform after each jaunt away, someone I've shared countless stories and missed while being gone. We then talked of a someday trip to Ghana and I yearned to see my friends again.

I finally found my piece of Ghana in America.

http://www.graceafrican.com/

With thoughts of Ghana and friendships, I e-mailed the Ghana Girls a few days later in hopes of having a reunion this summer. It's underway, plans of going to Grace's, sleeping in the backyard in tents and having bonfires, of sharing stories and catching up with each other. I can't wait.

And then a day later, what I like to think of as being prompted by consistent thoughts of Ghana, my friends there, my volunteer Ghana Girls, and hopefully positive energies swirling together from across the world and universe, I received a letter from Gladys, a friend still in Woe. Those letters, words, stories, and hopes from Ghana are so rare. Those letters arriving months after being written always reminding me of how grateful that I am to still hear from my family there.